Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
But I knew it in an empirical sense.
Now I take a beat to drink her in, and the answers to her question are clear and bright.
Why? Because freckles dance across the bridge of your cute nose. Because your lips are so lush. Because your eyes shine with fire and humor. And because you’re so fucking brave.
“Because…you’re you,” I say at last.
There. That’s safe enough. Just because I’m thinking things about her for the first time—or, really, the first time since I learned who she was—doesn’t mean I’m going to say them out loud. Let alone act on them. Our lives are too…connected. It’d be messy, and I hate messes.
But helping her right now? That’s easy, so I keep going. “Which means you’re going to have the best French braid ever.”
She blinks. “You can French braid?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” She sounds like she’d be more surprised if I said I spoke French.
“I have a twelve-year-old daughter. Now, turn around.”
“Yes, sir.” Mabel spins around once more. I take the clip and run the teeth of it through her hair, combing out the wet strands, then separating them into three chunks.
Checking the time on my watch, I put the clip on the counter, then grasp the right chunk in my hand. Her breath hitches.
That’s an interesting reaction, but I need focus to do this quickly and well. I weave that handful over the middle section, then loop in the left chunk. I gather more locks on the right, add it to that strand, and weave it into the braid. I do the same on the left side, then slowly, steadily work my way down her hair, crafting a tight French braid.
As I go, I sneak a whiff of her sugary scent. No surprise—Mabel smells like the treats she makes. It’s the best kind of smell, like candy and butter, with a hint of vanilla.
When I reach the nape of her neck, my thumb slides across her pale, creamy skin. I don’t want to stop touching her, and this is a problem.
A problem I like far too much. My chest heats as I steal another touch, grazing her neck once more.
She stifles a gasp, and I pause, absorbing the realization that she likes the way I’m touching her hair, maybe even the way I have to pull on it to braid it. When I near the end, she goes still, as if she’s holding her breath. I fight the urge to tug on the end of her braid. But I focus on finishing, neatly looping one strand over the other until I’m down to the middle of her back with little hair left.
“I don’t have a hair tie,” she says quietly.
“But we have a lucky clip.” I grab the clip once more and use it to secure the end of the braid. “Done. And with four minutes to spare.”
She turns around, and there’s something in her brown eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not gratitude, though there is some of that. It’s more like curiosity with a touch of heat.
A part of me thinks that’s good. Another part thinks it’s a problem that this temptation seems mutual.
“Thank you, Corbin.” She lets out a laugh, then adds, “I should bake you a cake to show my appreciation.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m just glad I was here.”
“You don’t like cake?” From her tone, indifference to cake would be blasphemy.
“I ate some off your arm a few minutes ago.”
“But did you like it?”
I’d have thought that was proof. “Of course I like cake.”
“Why of course?”
“Because I like things that taste…” I pause, trying not to look at her mouth, but failing, “really fucking good.”
Maybe that came out a bit naughtier than it sounded in my head. Maybe I’m flirting with my best friend’s little sister. Didn’t have that on my bingo card for today.
“Like what?” she counters.
This woman doesn’t back down. And there are so many reasons I shouldn’t answer that question. Her brother’s the acting general manager for my hockey team, filling the role after the longtime GM retired last season. As if that’s not enough, with the season barely underway, a rough end to last year’s playoff hopes, and my daughter extremely busy with middle school in the city, my life is complicated enough.
But there’s something about the space in this trailer, or the lack thereof. There’s something about the flirty way Mabel asked, Like what? And there’s definitely something about the way she’s waiting for my answer like she needs it.
My gaze drops to a tiny bit of frosting still left on her forearm, then returns to her eyes. “Things like frosting.”
Read on…
THE RIVAL UPGRADE
Dear Reader,
I’m so excited to share this short story with you! I just wasn’t ready to leave the Love and Hockey world, so I wrote another romance! If you’ve read my Virgin Society series, you’ll recognize the heroine — Camden. She’s a rising star singer in that series and she never got her own romance. I brought her into my hockey world and gave her a hot, sexy love story with a British athlete, and you also get to see Karlsson finally get his comeuppance! I love a revenge romance and hope you do too!